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<title>Quicksilver Tongue by Monsterunderkilt</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992639">Quicksilver Tongue</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt'>Monsterunderkilt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [45]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, Shakespeare - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:15:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir gives me a teasing incentive to keep up with my bookish resolutions</p><p>Featuring verse from Shakespeare’s “Romeo &amp; Juliet”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [45]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Quicksilver Tongue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With a book on the history of furniture twice the size of my lap, I sit up on the chaise in the corner of my bedroom, diligently studying the differences among parquetry, marquetry, and intarsia. Also, trying to practice the pronunciation of <em>podreuse</em>. I don’t realize how late it is until Sir enters the room from the secret office door. I look up for a second, take in his now-standard chimera Zoom attire of polo-and-blazer paired with sweatpants and immediately read the lethargy in his profile. “Finally done for the evening, my love?”</p><p> </p><p>Ken turns around, mildly jolted by my voice. “Oh, sorry, I was trying to be as quiet as possible—”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t wake me,” I say, turning my page to a bevy of Chippendale chairs. “I lost track of time as well.”</p><p> </p><p>He blinks and rubs his hand over his face, then smiles faintly and slips out of his blazer. “What is it this month again? Chairs?”</p><p> </p><p>“Chairs, tables, beds, cabinets, chests, armoires, more chests, desks, highboys, lowboys, <em>commodes</em>, which are not what you think they are.”</p><p> </p><p>Ken goes to our own armoire to hang up his blazer. “And what would those be?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fancy chests.”</p><p> </p><p>He chuckles as he heads toward the bathroom. “Ladies and their fancy chests.”</p><p> </p><p>Several minutes later, he re-emerges in his pyjamas, freshly showered and ever more tired. He plods toward me and sits on the edge of the chaise at my feet, hands on knees, and takes a deep breath. “Ohh, what a day.”</p><p> </p><p>I idly toe the length of his thigh. “Everything alright?”</p><p> </p><p>He yawns and takes my foot in one hand, squeezing it firmly. “Post-production is bit hard with proper social distancing.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can imagine as much,” I say, narrowing my gaze to admire the smooth, muscular shape of all the cabriole legs of nearly everything in the 1700s. “Bedtime then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely,” he says, standing again to stretch his arms above his head. But then something catches his eye. “Oh what’s that now?”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s what?” I ask, grabbing my bookmark.</p><p> </p><p>Ken walks over to the nightstand on my side of the bed and hefts a large, imposing book. He whistles as he flips it open and peruses the contents. “<em>Asimov</em> wrote about Shakespeare?”</p><p> </p><p>I snap my book shut, leap from the chaise and dive over the bed toward him. “No, no, no, that’s mine—”</p><p> </p><p>Ken turns away, scanning a page or two. “I’m in dire need of some bedtime reading material. This would fit the bill perfectly.”</p><p> </p><p>I scramble over the other side of the bed and reach around him to grab it but he lifts it high over my head. “I just acquired it, Ken, please!”</p><p> </p><p>“But you have an entirely sumptuous coffee table book on your syllabus this month,” he says, pointing across the room. “I saw you marking out the daily page quota with all your wee Post-It flags the other day.”</p><p> </p><p>I hop up and down, stretching my arms as high as they can go, but to no avail. I huff and stare up at his now mischievous smile. “Kenneth Charles!” I say with all the gravitas I can muster. “It’s not in your interest to disallow me my nightly rendezvous with my boyfriend.”</p><p> </p><p>Eyes widening at my overly formal address, my husband lowers the book, but still holds it behind him. “Madam Missus, you forget... Old William was <em>my</em> boyfriend before he was yours.”</p><p> </p><p>Seething with a miniature rage at his being effortlessly correct, I feel my cheeks flush, then I throw my arms up and turn to hop into bed.</p><p> </p><p>Ken’s free arm whips out and grabs me around the waist to roughly pull me against him. His sultry expression holds my gaze as he slowly places the thick book back on my nightstand and encloses me with both arms. He smiles as he touches my hair, thumb softly grazing my red hot cheek. “I’ll keep you honest, darling. As long as you finish your self-imposed assignment each day, you can have your William each night.” With that, he closes the gap between us and kisses me warmly for a long few seconds. Just as I sense him pulling away, I hold his face closer and go past his teasing chastity for a deeper snog.</p><p> </p><p>When our lips finally unlock, Ken takes a deep breath and whispers. “Are you <em>practicing</em> as well?”</p><p> </p><p>I nod seriously.<em> “The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night,</em></p><p>
  <em>check’ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light...”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He hums, sensuously running his hands up and down my back. “Go on, Missus.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels</em>
</p><p>
  <em>from forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels...”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>With every line I recite correctly, he rewards me with a light kiss on my neck—a ritual we’ve recently taken up after he encouraged me to start re-learning my old monologues again. Last week, it was the opening soliloquy from <em>Richard III</em>—one of my all-time favorites. Now it’s Friar Lawrence in <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Now ere the sun advance his burning eye,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I must up-fill this osier cage of ours</em>
</p><p>
  <em>with baleful weed sand precious juiced flowers.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Four more kisses, and we stumble into bed as I reach for my phone and refresh my memory of the next set of lines for the night.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“The earth, that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What is her burying grave that is her womb.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And from her womb children of diverse kind</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We sucking on her natural bosom find,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Many for many virtues excellent,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>None but for some and yet all different.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ken spoons me and pulls the duvet over us for a nice winter’s cuddle. He whispers in my ear, “See... It’s all coming back to you like quicksilver.”</p>
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